


Safe Haven

by icarus_chained



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Friendship/Love, Gen, Homophobia, M/M, Rape Recovery, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-22
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 03:17:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarus_chained/pseuds/icarus_chained
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade comes to Baker Street after having suffered an assault, and in the process of dealing with it, an old incident involving Watson comes to light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe Haven

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very old fic of mine, that was never added to. An attempt, among other things, at matching ACD's style. It is, ah, rather shaky, I think.

Over the course of my long association with Sherlock Holmes, I have seen and known a thousand facets of experience, from the extraordinary to the sordid, from the elegant to the lewd, from the wonderous to the terrible, and if Holmes would call that my romanticism speaking, it is no less true for it. What is also true, but perhaps less obvious, is that I have come to see and know, and even love, two extraordinary men because of it. 

The first of them is always, of course, Holmes himself. Fascinating, intelligent, biting, occasionally cruel, at times achingly vunerable, there is no limit to my admiration and caring for the man, or to what I will endure to stay at his side. I write this without fear or shame, for until we three are well gone, no other eyes will touch upon these words. Thus liberated, I will say without chagrin everything that Holmes knows to be true, no matter how vehement his occasional denials. In truth, however, it is only in deference to the needs of the final member of our strange little coterie that I observe so stringent a policy of secrecy. I am a widower, after all, who mourned truly for the loss of his wife, and Holmes is so very eccentric that I think the public would think anything of him, but believe next to nothing of it. No, it is only for the sake of our dear Inspector Lestrade that I fear at all, for in some ways this is even more his story than it is ours, and it is in many ways terrible. 

It was Lestrade's coming to us, I think, that changed everything. Holmes and I had grown quite comfortable in our ways, and I do not believe it would ever have occured to either of us to step beyond that quiet acknowledgement of each other. I know beyond question it would never have occured to Lestrade to intrude at all, had circumstances not driven him to so terrible an impasse. But drive him they did, and whatever the cost, whatever the consequence, Baker Street looks after its own.

\---

It was a muggy October evening, full of fog and damp, the kind of evening that makes you unreasonably glad for a warm fire, a hot brandy, and a cosy chair, and I daresay I enjoyed all three. Holmes, conversely, was in a flurry of research for some minor case or other, tinkering feverishly with test tubes and retort-stands. Mrs Hudson had retreated downstairs with the remains of his mostly untouched supper. She had pretended to some upset, but I could see that she shared my relief, that the onset of a black mood had been averted, however temporarily. It looked, in fact, to be the beginnings of a rather quiet evening, saving of course the occasional small explosion of over-enthusiastic chemicals. So, naturally, it was not to be.

The first indication of the strange and dark turn our evening was to take was the slam of the downstairs door. Now, this itself was not so unusual as many reasonable households may believe, but Mrs Hudson's audible gasp of panicked sympathy was a somewhat rarer occurance, such that Holmes and I were already on our feet when Lestrade and a constable almost tumbled in our door, the sweep of blood on the inspector's forehead making obvious the cause of their distress. 

"Sorry to barge in, sirs," the young man began, Lestrade's weight tugging at him, but we did not allow him to finish. With a nod from Holmes, who rapidly drew the constable to one side in order to get a report, I lost no time in putting my arm around the inspector's waist and leading him into Holmes' room, keeping an ear out for the constable's stammered reponses to Holmes' brusque questioning. Something about a criminal taking Lestrade hostage while attempting to escape custody. I confess, I do not recall very many of the specifics, for the depths of our dear inspector's predicament was revealed as I removed his overcoat, and I will own to a moment of unadulterated shock that caused me to miss most of the conversation. 

I glanced up at his face, and behind the pained lucidity of his eyes, there was a shadow of pure terror that snapped me from my reverie. It is a terrible thing, to see fear in the eyes of a friend and know it is of you, and I clasped his hand for a moment in answer to that mute question. The relief in his face was painful to witness, but of course I understood. For a man in his position to be found so, even if it was forced upon him, would be the ruin of his career, if not his life. For him to have retained enough lucidity and reason to remember that, in the face of such an assault as it was now obvious he had endured, was a measure of his strength of character and presence of mind, and for that alone I would have aided him, even had he not been already my friend.

He made no sound as I set to cleaning and treating his injuries, closing his eyes as instructed while I cleaned his face, and leaving them closed in sheer exhaustion when I moved on. I thought he had fallen unconscious, but when I sensed Holmes' presence in the doorway behind me, Lestrade's eyes fluttered open again, and he tensed beneath my hands. I turned to see Holmes' face grow dark as he looked at us, my hands wet and the water on them faintly pink in the lamplight.

"It is as I suspect?" my friend asked, quietly. I nodded, and for a moment Holmes bowed his head. When he raised it again, there was nothing but steely determination on his ascetic features. "Then I will depart at once for Scotland Yard. Lestrade, I trust, will rest easy in your capable hands."

He turned to go, while I stared after him in shock, and Lestrade turned his head to the wall. It was this gesture of despair that spurred me to action, and I called Holmes to wait. "Why the Yard?" I cried, distressed by what I thought was a betrayal. He blinked at me, surprised, then shook his head in animated frustration.

"Think, Watson!" he snapped, in fierce reproach. "While the inspector may have made every possible precaution from his side of events, he can do nothing to prevent the other player in this dismal drama from taking full advantage of what he has wrought!" Behind me, Lestrade flinched in realisation, and my shamed recognition must have shown in my features, for Holmes gifted us with a brief, almost tender smile. "I have spent these past number of years attempting to instill some part of my knowledge and methods in our dear inspector, and I should very much dislike for all that effort to be wasted just when it has begun to bear fruit, simply on account of some thug being unable to keep his mouth closed. Since the good constable was able to furnish me with a name I recognise, I believe it should be within my power to ensure that this does not occur, but only if I leave immediately."

I had mastered myself by the time he finished, though I was hard pressed to keep a smile of pride and gratitude from blooming, knowing as I did that it would only fluster Holmes. However, I could not wholly keep it from my voice. "Well then, what are you waiting for?" He offered an ironic little bow in response, but his features as he left were once more molded in firm resolve. Turning back, I saw that Lestrade's eyes as he stared after my friend were so full of emotion it was almost unbearable, and I looked away in respect when he turned his head once more to the wall, and wept. 

\---

It was some hours later when Holmes returned to us, saying nothing and moving immediately to the mantelpiece, and his tobacco. Lestrade, having refused to obey my injunction to sleep with a steadfastness worthy of Holmes himself, had been settled wrapped in blankets upon the sofa, dozing fitfully with a cup of hot tea and brandy at his elbow, courtesy of a worried Mrs Hudson. He wanted to know when Holmes returned, and what news he would have, and in light of the circumstances I couldn't fault his concern. For my own part, I kept vigil from my armchair, and tried not to dwell too much on the circumstances, and the foreboding that came unbidden to tell me that our trials were not done, not by half. So when Holmes swept pensive into the room once more, I came instantly to my feet, and Lestrade to full alertness, both of us waiting with mute expectancy for him to speak.

If either of us expected an instant report, however, we were to be disappointed, for the first words from his lips were a question on Lestrade's condition, which aside from the cut above his right eye and the tearing in his muscles from the assault was not so bad. I told him so, addressing Lestrade as much as Holmes, and in the process was reminded of something I had neglected to tell the wounded officer.

"I took the liberty of sending a message informing your colleagues that you had suffered some rather severe wrenching of your lower back during the scuffle, and would not be in for a few days," I quietly informed our wan inspector. "That should also easily account for any later difficulty you may have walking properly, or sitting down too quickly. With luck, and if Holmes has been successful in his endeavour, no-one should suspect a thing!"

Lestrade's taut features eased sightly at the news, though understandably not by much, and I offered him an encouraging smile before turning my attention to Holmes. Leaning stiffly by the fireplace, my friend favoured me with a long and wary appraisal, and seemed not to notice the question implicit in my statement. I prompted him gently. "Is that not so, Holmes?"

"Hmm?" He stirred himself. "Oh, yes. Can you doubt it,Watson? But I'm afraid you worry me, my dear fellow."

I blinked. "I? Whyever should you worry about me, Holmes? I should think the inspector has a far more pressing problem than anything of mine!"

With one of those rapid little jerks of his head, so expressive of his frustration, Holmes swept himself away from the mantle, and into his chair. "Oh, indeed! Rest assured I have not forgotten. After my interview with that pestilence of a perpetrator, I am never likely to forget! A more contempt-worthy specimen I have never been misfortunate enough to meet, and I shudder to think of what you endured at his hands, Lestrade!"

The wry inspector ducked his head in acknowledgement, the pain of so recent a horror obvious in the cant of his bowed head. And yet, I was heartened to see his eyes brighten with some glimmer of his customary curiosity when he raised it, that hunger for knowledge back in his sharp gaze as he regarded my friend. Even Holmes appeared somewhat appreciative of this indication of Lestrade's strength of character, and also, if I'm not very much mistaken, gratified that he had engendered it in our wounded colleague.

"Well?" the little man urged. "Explain yourself, Mr Holmes! What has Dr Watson done to earn your concern?" I nodded myself, intruiged. To my knowledge, I had done nothing to warrant Holmes' attention.

Holmes looked away, contemplating the fire with an unusually grave demeanor, and I quashed the sudden sensation of fear as it arose in my breast. "You will forgive me," he murmured softly, "if I intrude upon secrets you would rather not reveal, Watson?"

Apprehensive, but somewhat resigned, I nodded.

"It merely seemed to me," he went on, "that the story you offered Gregson, and your reasoning for it, seemed rather the voice of experience."

He refused to face me, while Lestrade turned to look at me, with that expression of dawning comprehension that so often graced his features when Holmes voiced a conclusion that had not occured to him, but appeared to fit the facts. Heart sinking, I tried to deflect his conclusion. "As a doctor ..." I began, but Holmes would have none of it. Turning his head so that I was forced to meet the full force of his incisive gaze, he glared at me in warning. I surrendered, resigned to the fact that while a secret may be kept from Holmes, albeit with difficulty, no falsehood uttered to his face could ever hope to pass muster.

"It was a trivial matter, long ago. I had put it from my mind, until the inspector's predicament brought it back to me." I turned to the inspector. "I must confess, you had me worried for a moment, coming to me with these particular injuries, though I understand your reasoning. I couldn't see how you could possibly know, especially as Holmes didn't ... I mean no offense." I offered him an apologetic shrug, and Lestrade huffed good-naturedly.

" _If_ I had ever felt it necessary to investigate you, Dr Watson, I'm sure I would have done a thorough job of it!" 

The corner of Holmes' mouth twitched slightly at that, but his eyes remained fixed upon me, very grave, as I dipped my head sheepishly. Conscious that my brow was furrowing under that steady regard, I continued. "Nonetheless, you are right, Holmes, as ever. Inspector Lestrade is not alone in having been wounded in that manner."

Holmes jerked his head, his eyes closing and a hand coming up to rub the bridge of his nose, as he did when he was thinking deeply or had come upon a fact which pained him. Under the circumstances, I was not long in concluding which case it was. Lines etched themselves into his brow as he bowed his head against that hand for a long moment, but when he roused himself again, any emotion hidden by those concealing eyelids was banished, and his eyes were once more clear and grave. "Do go on," he murmured, waving a hand briefly in my direction. 

I shook my head. "I don't see how it's relevant, Holmes. You must believe me, it was truly a trivial thing, nothing at all like what the good inspector has suffered."

His eyelids fluttered. "Ah. I see I am being too forward. Of course, Watson, if you do not wish to tell us of this event ..."

I sighed, and shook my head. "No. It's perfectly all right, I suppose. Under the circumstances, revealing it is hardly likely to return to haunt me."

"Certainly not!" Lestrade burst out, for he was of course somewhat understandably concerned himself in this regard. "For my part, at least." Holmes nodded his agreement, though I fancy there was some measure of reproach in his manner, that I should ever have doubted it. Nonetheless reassured, I continued.

"It was back during my army days, in Afghanistan," I began, and paused as I read the inevitable conclusion in the faces of two men of considerable imaginative powers, both well accustomed to expecting the worst. "Oh, it was not what you think, I assure you. Up until the moment I took a Jezail bullet, I was never more directly threatened by the enemy than any other soldier, and considerably less than some. No, this was what you might term a sordid little affair, Holmes, for there was no romance or adventure in it. Certainly none for me, and I think less for the other party involved."

"A fellow soldier?" Lestrade whispered, rather shocked.

I smiled. "Indeed. It seems even Englishmen are capable of perversion under pressure, inspector." He had the decency to blush, though in truth I was pleased that despite it's recent, all-pervasive impact on his life, Lestrade's misuse did not seem to deflect his curiousity and outlook on other matters. "Even in the army, there are some people not unlike your Mr Smythe. Thankfully, though, I was not to fall prey to one."

Holmes stirred. "I'm afraid you've lost me. My dear Watson, I realise this is a rather more personal matter, but if you could bring to your narrative the clarity you typically apply to our cases, I should be very much obliged to you." Chastised, I nodded.

"It was one night at the field-hospital. A bout of fever had spread through the regiment, nothing too serious, but it hit those men already sick or wounded rather hard. We'd pulled a long and exhausting shift over the previous forty hours or so. Parkinson was dead on his feet, and the two orderlies and myself weren't much better, but we'd gotten everything more or less under control. It was so quiet, in fact, that I decided to send Parkinson and one of the orderlies to bed on a pair of free cots, while myself and the other man, Wilkes, kept watch. He set himself to brewing a pot of tea, while I made my rounds.

"There was a boy at the far end of one of the wards, one of those fools who wait until they are at death's door before they think to tell anyone that they're hurt." I very pointedly did not look at Holmes. "He'd had a bullet skim his forearm, and thinking it slight, had allowed the wound to fester. Thankfully, his comrade was not so foolish, and delivered the boy to us before gangrene had set in, so he was not so bad as he might have been. But the fever had caught him in the night, and he was delirious, tossing and turning, his temperature at dangerous levels. I had determined to keep a special eye on him, so at the apex of my round I stopped to examine him. Unfortunately, his fever had intensified, and as I reached over to check his pulse, delirium turned to wakeful ravings, and he lashed out at me.

"I am somewhat ashamed to admit that he caught me by surprise, for normally such an action would barely have affected me. This once, however, I stumbled backwards in shock, and fell, hitting my head against the neighbouring cot on the way down. As I lay stunned, he, having identified an enemy in the midst of his ravings, all but threw himself after me, doubtless tearing his wound as he did so."

"Hah!" Holmes exclaimed, rather thickly. "A doctor to last, Watson? But go on."

I shot him a reproachful glance, but did as he said. In truth, the telling made me uneasy, for it was not a pleasant thing to remember. "For the first few moments, he treated me as a desperate enemy, lashing out at whatever part of me he could reach. Thanks to his illness, his blows were weak, but dazed as I was I could not stop him, and neither could I recall enough sense to cry out. Soon enough, though, the fit passed, and his blows subsided. I had partly come back to myself by this point, enough to struggle, perhaps, but I saw no need. That is, until he began to turn me over."

I had to pause. It had been a long, long time since I had cause to think of these things, and I had forgotten, I think, what dreadful hold they had once had over me. Lestrade too had whitened, no doubt in the throes of his own remembrance. Only Holmes had no such history to haunt him, but I do not doubt that his agile mind had already filled the gaps of my telling with vivid mental pictures. There was that coldness in his features that told me he had reconstructed every nuance of the scene in his mind, and was pained by it.

"His activity had burned some of the fever from him, and he had now about him that strength which ill men sometimes acquire in the depths of their delusions. At that point, I'm sure he had it in him to do anything he wished with me, but he did not treat me ill. He seemed to have forgotten that moments ago I had seemed an enemy to him. Even now, I do not know whose face he saw in mine that night, but I believe he cared a great deal for them, and it was only because I was unprepared and disinclined to cooperate that he hurt me at all. He was ... weeping, as he finished, saying some word over and over under his breath. A name, I think, though I did not catch it. I believe I was in shock. No. I'm quite sure of it, because even to this day I cannot remember exactly how long we lay there. Not too long, though, for Wilkes did not come looking. I was always rather grateful for that, actually."

There was silence for a long moment when I finished, and I admit I was glad of it, because emotion had me by the throat, and I do not believe I had it in me at that moment to answer Holmes' inevitable questions. Holmes, unusually perhaps, allowed me that time, staring into the fire with a pensive expression that did little to calm me. Surprisingly, or maybe not, it was Lestrade who moved first, reaching out over the arm of the sofa to lay a hand on my arm in silent, hesitant comfort. And if there was a tremble in his hand as he did so, I did not mention it, for of all of us, he was the most entitled to pain at my tale. Foolishly caught up in my own remembered misery, there was little I could do to help him, save lay my own hand over his in muted understanding. Then Holmes turned back to me, and though I know he registered the touch, there was nothing in his eyes save a quiet, weary sadness.

"Go on, Watson," he said softly, and though his tone yielded nothing to the world, it came to me suddenly that he was in pain. My friend so very rarely shows that gentler side of him to the world, or even to me, that I had to clench my hand against the shame of having caused him pain, and what would undoubtedly be an unwelcome urge to reach out to him in comfort. Some part of what I was feeling must have revealed itself, however, for his eyes softened momentarily, silent permission for me to continue without worry.

"There is little more to tell," I admitted. "The boy was utterly spent by the end, and exhaustion combined with the pain of his wound breaking open sent him back into the depths of unconscious fever. When I had recovered myself, I set him back in his bed, and redressed the arm before I left. As I said, he was quite gentle with me, and what injuries I had sustained were dealt with with a minimum of cleansing."

Lestrade blinked at me. "You did not attempt to report him?" he asked incredulously. 

I blinked back, confused. "Neither have you, inspector," I pointed out, gently. Lestrade swallowed slightly, and looked away.

"My case is ... rather different, Dr Watson," he avowed softly. "I'm sure no-one would have called you to task for what happened to you that night."

I could feel Holmes' measuring regard against the side of my face as I thought how to answer the inspector. "No," I responded slowly. "But the boy would have suffered." I felt the heavy incredulity behind two pairs of eyes, and hastened to explain. "You must understand, gentlemen, that Afghanistan was ... difficult. With so much pain and sickness and death, all around us, it was difficult not to yearn for home and one's loved ones. Whoever that boy saw when he looked at me that night, it was obvious he loved him. It was unfortunate that I was there to be used when his pain and illness caused him to react to his need, but I cannot in good conscience fault him for reaching out for a loved one in extremis, no matter the nature of that love. Had I reported him, he would have been court-marshalled, probably shot, and to me that seemed a somewhat exorbitant a price to pay for a fever-dream."

I looked up to see what effect this reasoning had on my audience, and was dismayed to see that Lestrade's features had gone pale and remote. Realising what my mistake must have been, I rushed to reassure him. "Forgive me, Lestrade! I by no means meant to imply that you should have done anything of the kind. Your situation is far different to mine, and Smythe deserves no quarter for his crime!"

His response was not what I expected, neither reproach nor understanding, but simple confusion. It was Holmes who stepped in to offer an explanation.

"You mistake our dear inspector, Watson," he said softly. "It is my belief that, far from being outraged, Lestrade has reason to be relieved by your obvious, if sometimes foolish, tolerance."

I looked from one of them to the other, from Holmes' calm but penetrating gaze to Lestrade's pale and wary features, and confess to not the slightest glimmer of understanding.

"He told you, then," our weary comrade concluded. Holmes' face twisted in disgusted remembrance, but he nodded.

"Oh, indeed. Our Mr Smythe waxed poetical on the subject, before I rather pointedly brought home to him the wisdom of silence. Thankfully, his confession was in private. He took considerable pleasure, however, in informing me of my friend's 'perverse nature', and seemed of the opinion that 'the little runt enjoyed it'." The vitriol in Holmes' voice was terrible to hear, even as I understood what he alluded to, and I knew a sudden and all-consuming hatred for this Smythe. Lestrade seemed to shrink into himself, eyes averted and jaw clenched in such pain and shame that I was moved to intervene, but Holmes beat me to it, moving to lay a hand on our inspector's arm in a swift but oddly hesitant gesture of comfort, before retreating uneasily to stand once more by the fire.

"I was sorely tempted," he went on, "to enact my threat then and there, but to do so would have been to remove what tenuous leverage I had over him, and his venemous tongue. I am truly sorry, Lestrade, that I am unable to do more to reddress your treatment, but you may rest assured that your secrets are safe with me, and that neither myself nor Dr Watson will ever judge you or call you to task for them." He was stern and grave in his reassurance, but before the emotion that sprang unbidden to Lestrade's eyes as I added my assurances, my friend quailed slightly, uneasy as ever in the face of another's pain and gratitude. Very much moved myself, I stood to lay a hand on his shoulder, attempting to convey all my pride and gratitude in a way that would not discomfort my friend any further, but in truth it would have been absolutely beyond me _not_ to make some gesture, so intense were my feelings at that point.

Lestrade stared at us unblinking for a long moment, before he dipped his head to his chest to shield himself, overcome. Holmes shifted uneasily beneath my steadying hand, unsure what was required of him, while I was torn between respecting the man's need for a moment of privacy, and the desire to kneel at Lestrade's side in an attempt at comfort. Though I knew that nothing I had endured could come close to what our friend had suffered, to have what to him should have been a precious thing so defiled, still I had an inkling of what it was to be alone with such a secret, and I very much desired to give Lestrade every assurance I had could offer.

In moments, though, our dilemma was resolved. Overcome by the depths of emotion, and worn beyond measure by what he had endured that evening, Lestrade succumbed to Morpheus without even the chance to raise his head once more, or wipe his eyes. Stiff and embarrassed, though I suspect as much for Lestrade as himself, Holmes averted his gaze while I gently cleaned our exhausted friend's face, but was forced to focus when I enlisted his aid to carry the hapless man to the adjoining bedroom. There was a pensive tenderness in the way he regarded Lestrade as I settled the inspector so as not to put undue pressure on his wounds, and a faint touch of fear, but he offered nonetheless to sleep on the sofa that night to keep watch. I gently disuaded him of that, claiming doctor's prerogative, before I sent my shaken friend upstairs to bed.

As I settled myself upon the sofa, having rescued some blankets from Lestrade's pile, I will confess to a sharp pang of clear and startlingly possessive caring, for both of my friends, the beginnings of some deep emotion that was to grow steadily in my breast in the following days. But I was not to know, then, of what that weight of caring in my heart was to grow into, nor how steadily and greatly it was to be returned. I only knew that I was determined, no matter what the cost, to take care of them.


End file.
